“Cor! Listen to that! You love her,” Lowe sneered. “What utter shite.”
Temple did not look back, instead stalking away, heading for his rooms, already removing his cravat. The casino was silent as a grave, all the gamers having stopped their bets to watch Temple go mad.
Because of that, he heard it when Chase said quietly, “Well.”
He did not turn back, instead calling over his shoulder, “Feed the damn pig.”
When Mara arrived at The Fallen Angel, it was to a street virtually empty of people and noise, the opposite of how she imagined the exterior of one of London’s most exclusive gaming hells would be.
She wondered, fleetingly, if she was too late. If Temple had closed the club and left. If he’d decided to end this underground life of his and return to the light. Return to his dukedom. Return to his right.
That’s when panic set in.
Because in the damp, dark day, while she’d had nothing to do but walk and think, she’d realized that she loved this man beyond measure. And that she would do everything she could, for as long as she could, to make his life better than it ever would have been without her.
Of course, the moment she realized that, she realized that she was very very far away from the Angel.
But she was here now, and when she arrived, she knocked on the door, thrilled when a little slot opened in the steel. She stepped up to the space and said, “Hello. I am—”
The slot slid shut.
She hesitated, considering her next move. Knocked again. The slot opened. “I am here—”
The slot closed once more.
Honestly. Was every person having to do with this club obstinate? She knocked again. The slot opened. “Password.”
She paused at that. “I don’t—have one. But—”
The slot closed with a snap.
And that’s when Mara became angry. She began to bang on the door. Loudly. After a long moment, the little slot opened, the black eyes inside narrowed with irritation.
“Now look here, you!” she announced in her very best governess voice, underscoring her words with banging on the door.
The eyes in the slot went wide with surprise.
“I have spent the entire day on the streets of London, in the bitter cold!”
She punctuated the last with bang-bang-bang!
“And I have finally decided that it is time for me to face my desires, my past, my future, and the man I love! So, you will let!” Bang! “Me!” Bang! “In!”
She completed her tirade with a clattering of hits on the steel door with both fists. And added in a kick for good measure. She had to admit it felt rather good.
The eyes disappeared, replaced by a lighter, more feminine set—Dear God. Were they laughing at her? “Miss Lowe?”
She raised a finger. “I would think very carefully about the expression you present to me when you finally open this door.”
The locks on the door were finally thrown and she was allowed into the building to face a smiling Anna and a much more serious doorman. Indeed, he looked positively deferential when he said, “We’ve been searching for you.”
Mara shook out the skirts of her damp cloak and accepted a mask from him, settling it on her face before saying, all decorum, “Well, you’ve found me.” She turned to Anna. “Please take me to see Temple.”
Anna did as he was told, a look of smug satisfaction on her beautiful face as she reached into a nearby drawer and extracted a mask. Once Mara was protected from view, they made their way through the private passageways of the club, silent for long minutes before Anna said, “I am happy that you decided to return.”
“You didn’t tell him you saw me?”
Anna shook her head. “I did not. I know what it is like to have no say in one’s future. I would not bring it upon anyone.”
Mara considered the words for a long moment. “I don’t care about the future, as long as it is with him.”
The other woman smiled. “May it be long and happy. Lord knows you both deserve it.”
Warmth spread through Mara at the words, until Mara remembered that it was Temple who needed to accept her—Temple who needed to forgive her. For running. And for so much more.
If only someone would deliver her to him, so she could repair all the things she had broken. But Anna did not take Mara to him. She took her to the long, mirrored ladies’ side of the boxing ring, where it appeared all the people she had expected to see on the ground floor of the club had congregated.
She stepped into the dimly lit space, packed with women, her heart in her throat. She turned back to Anna. “There is to be a fight?”
“There is.” The prostitute guided her to the front of the room, to a place where two chairs sat close to the window.
At another time, Mara might be curious enough to watch it—curious enough to show interest in the fighters, whoever they may be. But they would not be Temple, who was too injured for fighting, and that was all she cared to know. She shook her head. “No. I don’t have time for this. I wish to see Temple,” she whispered. “I’ve waited too long. I want him to know I’ve changed my mind. I want him to know—”
I love him.
I want to be with him.
I want to start again.
Fresh. Forever.
Anna nodded. “And you will see him. But first, you will see this.”
The door to Temple’s rooms opened on the far side of the ring, and Mara came to her feet to see him approach the center of the room, her hands instantly pressed against the window.
“No,” she whispered.
He was naked from the waist up, devilishly handsome, and for a moment, all Mara could think of was how it had felt to slide against that skin, to touch him. To have him touch her. To want it again, the closeness. The pleasure.
The man.
And then her attention was on the bandage wrapped about his shoulder, protecting the wound he’d received in this very ring a week earlier. She turned to Anna. “No,” she repeated.
Anna was not looking at her. She was watching Temple ease into the ring. She tutted her displeasure. “He is favoring his right side.”
“Of course he is!” Mara said. “He is wounded! It shan’t be a fair fight!”
She should tell someone the arm was hurt. Demand to see the Marquess of Bourne. The elusive Chase. She should force the fight to be ended.
The women around them were making raucous noise, shouting out their lewd comments. “Cor! You can’t take the title from the man, but you certainly can take the man from the title.”
“He doesn’t look like any duke I’ve ever seen.”
“My lord, he’s a beauty.”
“He might not be one, but he does look a killer if ever there was one.”
“I’d happily turn myself over to him!”
“I don’t believe she’s really alive, you know,” someone interjected. “I think he simply paid some painted whore to arrive and claim to be Mara Lowe.”
“It’s her. I came out the season she was due to marry the dead duke. Everyone talked about those eyes.”
“Well, either way, I’m grateful to her. She’s made the Duke of Lamont a marriageable match once more.”
Mara burned with anger, wanting to take her fists to every one of these women.
Someone laughed. “You think you can land him yourself?”
“I heard that he loves her,” Anna said, her eyes on Mara, her words deceptively lazy.